


Good Morning, Father

by Nocturnalchild



Category: Adam Driver - Fandom, Silence (2016)
Genre: Church Choir, Churches & Cathedrals, F/M, Freeform, Kindness, Life is beautiful, Peace, Pining, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Love, Platonic Romance, Shyness, THIS IS AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE, adam driver AU, beauty in small details, beauty of simple life, choir, father garupe is a cookie, father garupe is so soft, father garupe loves brioche, garupe is an angel, modern francisco garupe, priest fluff, priests and churches, reader is soft, soft so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:39:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25736677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nocturnalchild/pseuds/Nocturnalchild
Summary: The priest of the village you live in is a cookie, a soft cookie who loves brioche and honey.
Relationships: Francisco Garupe/Original Female Character(s), Francisco Garupe/You
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	1. Good morning, Father

**Author's Note:**

> Some platonic love, because *mood* :p

Blue sky above you.

You held your hat in place, your white spring dress floating around you. Your sandals batted happily on the cobblestones, like they did every morning. You inhaled when you were about to take a turn to the bakery, it was usually the moment he appeared behind the old granite wall, black clean robe tail flapping behind him. How it never touched the ground, you would never know.

“Good morning Father“

You always surprised him, it appeared. But he always smiled, sweet and kind like a saint.

You always walked in the bakery at the same time. Father Francisco and you.

You always watched as you let him order before you his daily favorite bread. You watched his clean white collar, hugging his freckled neck snugly. You watched his rosary beads as they swayed gently on the folds of his neat black cassock. You watched his nervous fingers counting the money, a slight frown gracing his soft face.

The bakery door’s small bell rang.

Father Francisco threaded his fingers in his thick dark locks as he turned his head. His eyes met yours and he smiled shyly.

He never saw you at church, you were surely not… interested. He wished you were.

He wished to see you with the other faithful, he wished he could look at you while he gave his sermons, he imagined it would be nice. The words would flow easier.

“One brioche, please”

You knew his deep baritone, low and kind. It would fit in the church choir, you wondered. This morning though, it was deeper, a bit… graver. Did he catch a cold?

Father Francisco’s hand traced his throat, as if to answer you.

Your eyes met again. You smiled sympathetically and he looked up.

The Magi paying respect to child Jesus and the Virgin Mary. Your eyes followed his, looking at the renaissance artwork hung on the bakery’s front wall.

Father Francisco wrapped his precious bread under his arm, it might be one of his rare self-indulgences, you thought. What was his daily lunch? And dinner?

Ding! The door’s small bell.

Ding. ding. ding . The church bells.

“Christ, I’m late!” he muttered to himself, amber eyes caught in the light that swept into the bakery as the sun traveled higher in the blue, blue sky.

A rustle of fabric and he was gone. How it never touched the ground, you would never know.


	2. Brioche and Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Father Francisco is a LITERAL angel.

You waited, back on the cold stones of the church’s wall, alone as the church regulars formed joyful groups under the freshly cleared sky.

With your right hand, you wiped the dew on the oxeye daisies that grew on the breaches of the wall, while your other hand toyed nervously with the small paper bag you were holding.

the old wooden door squeaked. The crowd went silent for a second before beaming at the priest who, with a warm smile, invited them in.

Divine, was the word that came to mind when you saw him moving about the church choir, arranging the sheets on the stands and whispering his last directives to the choir members. Everything was gentle about him, every movement, every word, every look and every smile. Were his thoughts always that gentle too?

Dust particles twirled in the thin light strips the high cross shaped openings projected on the tiles.

The sopranos opened with the first notes. The words were in Latin, chanting the grace of Christ. The audience’s whispers ceased. You smiled, letting the melody seep into your soul and take you to a place where peace reigned. when his downy baritone escaped the joint voices to fly in a solo delivery of the Lord’s praise, a tear rolled down your cheek. Silent and warm.

Was he looking at you as you were looking at him? was he looking at you all the time as you liked to think?

You couldn’t figure the answer as he closed his eyes, soul elated with angels only he could see.

The last notes echoed in the vast centenarian church walls, and the dust particles settled on the floor.

After the clapping, after the civilities and the last bits of laughter and enthusiastic thank yous, you stayed in your corner, patiently waiting for him to be alone.

“Good evening Father” you addressed him, lowering your voice when you stepped in closer. You always lowered your voice in church, the rare times you visited. Something about the half-light, the high ceilings, the smell of old paper and the candles melting wax. It was commanding, that presence that never left the place.

“Good evening, glad you came” His voice softer and graver than ever.

“How could I not, thank you for inviting me” you laughed and looked at your hands, squeezing the paper bag.

“This… is for you”

“I… Thank you so much… I usually only accept gifts for the church…”

“Um… I’m so sorry… I…”

“I know” he smiled. Your heart broke a little.

“I’m accepting this one” he reassured you.

You couldn’t help but notice that he appeared taller now that he was just a few steps away from you and the way he curled his large shoulders to accommodate to your height was endearing.

You were a little out of breath when he asked, eyes big and expectant.

“Can I open my gift now?”

You nodded, heat warming your cheeks as he unwrapped the small paper bag, revealing its content.

His eyes shone like those of a child when he saw your brioche and pot of honey.

“ It… it’s homemade… and the honey is for your… cold” you bit your lips, bashful.

It was Francisco’s turn to blush. You cared enough to notice… 

“Seems that someone knows exactly what I’m most in need of — that cold has been ruining my voice, lately” He laughed, pleased.

“You sang divinely… Father” 

“Must be the holy spirit, not me”, a self-deprecating joke, one of many that you learnt to love.

“Thank you… y/n, really” His hand went to brush your shoulder, the faintest touch and it was gone. 

It was later, in the fresh evening air, with his words lingering in your mind, that you noticed the small object in your dress pocket.

You smiled at the little wooden cross resting in your palm, shaped by unexperienced awkward hands. He cared enough to try, and it was enough.

The dust particles shone in the last orange light strips that hung in the air as you closed your garden’s gate behind you. Not so far, the church bells chimed. Your last thoughts of the day were about him and it was enough. It was enough. 


End file.
